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The walk to the elevator wasn’t far, and I felt almost like I was cheating the system as I made my way up to the fourth floor and came to a stop beside a wall with an old-school corded phone.

Right. Round two of passing some kind of test to gain entry.

Here’s where I had to tell them who I was and why I was there. My hand felt sweaty when I picked up the phone and listened to it ring.

“Hi, uh,” I said after the nurse picked up. He had a very nice, rumbly voice. Maybe he was hot. Maybe I could—no. No, Aravind. You are not making up some hospital fantasy right now. “I’m here to see Tiago Nadeau. Room 407.”

“Visitor’s badge?”

“You…want it?”

“Do you have it?” He sounded impatient, which was decidedly not sexy.

“It’s on my shirt.” I pressed my palm over it like it was some kind of Star Trek beaming device, but it didn’t transport me to Tiago’s door.

The line went dead, and then the door in front of me clicked, and I was once again allowed entry. God, this seemed like a fucking security risk. Tiago was a professional hockey player—and okay, the PPHL didn’t have the same rabid fan base that the NHL did, but I’d seen the people who kept themselves pressed against the glass with their big signs and tight shirts.

Which was, in a way, ironic since most of the players were blind. But Tiago had gone out of his way to remind me that blindness was a spectrum, so hey. Maybe it worked for them.

God, my brain was rambling today. My ADHD meds were not working, and if this kept up, I was going to need a triple shot of espresso in order to focus tonight to get the rest of this article written.

Lost in my thoughts, I’d turned the wrong way down the corridor and was near the 420s, so I had to double back to the doors and try again. 407 was across from the nurses’ station, which was probably good for Tiago, and his door was cracked open.

I held my breath as I peered in and let out a sigh of relief when I saw him lying in the bed and no one else around him. Even if he did throw me out, there wasn’t going to be some hulking hockey player threatening to kick my ass for stalking him.

Which wasn’t what this was.

It was something else.

Whatever the professional version of stalking was called.

Stepping into the room, I could see he was clearly still alive, and based on the way his knee was wrapped up, I was pretty sure he’d just had his surgery. After everything his doctor had said when he was first admitted, I probably wasn’t going to get an answer today about whether or not he was going to keep playing hockey.

But at least I could say I did my due diligence as a reporter or whatever.

With a fortifying breath, I stepped all the way into the room and closed the door behind me. Tiago jolted at the sound, and his eyes, which looked redder than usual, began to scan the room.

I stepped closer, and when his eyes fixed on me, he stiffened. “Hello,” I said quietly.

“Why?” His voice was raspy. “Tell me you’re not here for more article bullshit.”

Rolling my eyes, I walked over and flopped into the chair beside his bed. “So, the thing is, my boss is a raging ass fistula who decided that the statement you gave wasn’t enough.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your boss,” Tiago said, turning his head toward me. His eyes wandered again, so I had to wonder if he’d lost me.

“You and me both. But I promised I’d get a follow-up statement⁠—”

“You can quote me,” he said, gently pushing up a bit. He winced and groaned, but eventually, he was up and leaning over the railing. “Kiss my ass. A big, wet tongue kiss right up my puckered hole.”

It was meant to be an insult. A creative chirp, which it was. But it also gave me an extremely vivid mental image, which should not have been sexy, considering the circumstances.

But my dick had the audacity to twitch in my jeans.

Luckily, I was sitting prim and proper, and also, he could barely see my face, so I figured he couldn’t see that.

“So, is that a no on your future with hockey, or…”

He flopped back down and pressed his hands over his face. “Why are you like this?”